Gin and Blossoms
by BetweenLines55
Summary: They say time is fleeting and true love is forever, but perhaps, if you're a country, it's the other way around. Or: Arthur asks a question, he gets an answer, and Francis is really just tired of dealing with him.


"Do you ever get jealous, Frog-face?"

"Jealousy is a normal emotion for those of us capable of feeling. Do not flatter yourself, _cher_." Francis retaliates, but the words are guarded, questioning Arthur's ulterior motives because Arthur wouldn't have been an empire once upon a time without those sorts of things.

Then again, neither would he.

Sometimes he wants to strangle the life out of Arthur-watch the light face from his eyes as he chokes on his pleas for mercy. Other days, he wants to kiss Arthur senseless until they end up in bed. Or on the settee. Or over the desk in the study. More often than not, it's a combination of the two. Either way, it ends with Arthur shutting up.

He is ever so attractive when he is quiet.

Francis hates to admit it, but he's attractive now, especially. Stretched out, fucked within an inch of his life, and languid and lazy like the lion Francis' Angleterre is supposed to be. Though...perhaps more of an over-fed house cat, during this era of docility and domesticity.

Blond hair flops over ancient, tired eyes and Francis knows that the only reason Arthur's tongue has become so loose is because he is still high on the endorphins from their last round. Sometimes, it feels like marathon-sex or nothing at all, which Francis particularly loathes.

"I already know you think me to be blackhearted, frog, but really, did you ever get jealous? And not over me, you twit. Jealous as in you grew a backbone and wanted something you really couldn't have." Arthur says. He looks at Francis as though he is a simply a toy and playtime is almost over. That is the problem, Francis supposes, with taking a man like Arthur for a lover-although he is publicly know to be a bit of a cantankerous scrooge, Arthur was, is, a powerful man and has a certain affinity for wrapping people around his little finger. Francis knows he is easy replaceable by this man lain out before him, but he likes to think he is at the very least the best lover Arthur could ever acquire.

"I do believe that is the definition of jealousy." Francis snaps. Arthur snorts, "I never remember you being so short with me before. I'm not sure if I like it or not."

He may not like it, Francis thinks, yet it amuses him. He, truly, will never understand his Black Sheep.

"One day," Francis says instead, "I realized I couldn't beat you in battle so I had to divert to other ways of besting you. Sex is one of them. I'm working on the witty comebacks."

Arthur grins his Cheshire smile and makes a sound that might be the barest hint of a laugh. Francis gets the feeling as though he is being laughed _at_, not laughed _with_.

"Very well. Yet, you have not answered my question. A simple yes or no would placate me."

Francis lets himself laugh. What a lie. He tells his companion so.

Instead of snapping or getting angry like Francis expects, Arthur's grin simply widens as the island nation props himself up to lean over Francis reclining figure. He uses his teeth to nip at the underside of Francis' jaw, nosing his way down to one of the Frenchman's collar bones. "Would you being willing to divulge more information then? I wouldn't say no to it."

"I know this game you're playing, _mon ange_." Francis gasps breathlessly as Arthur sucks on one of his nipples. Even distracted by Arthur, Francis uses the term of endearment ironically for good reason. America didn't know what he was going up against in 1776; how the boy succeeded even with aid was still a bit of a mystery to Francis. Sometimes, now times, Francis can't fathom how anyone lost against the lion currently in his lap, how they didn't get seduced by the riveting jade eyes that would change hue as soon as you diverted your gaze.

"Game? Me? How horrible of you to even suggest that." Arthur says only because he knows he's been caught and he isn't very sorry. He moves his attention to Francis' other nipple as he waits for his lover to answer him.

"You are-hah-trying to get me to admit that I was once jealous of you, of your power. Never over you. You will always belong to me and I will always belong to you. Spain and Prussia and Japan and China were only little games to you. I remember you, very clearly, waging war with Germany simply because he attacked your little sparing partner, moi.

"Perhaps I was once jealous of your power, but it would all be in vain, hmm? Neither of us are very important anymore. It is the age of America, is it not, where the children have finally surpassed their parents?" Francis laughs nastily, he knows this, as Arthur sits up, finally red not from sex but embarrassment now that he realizes that Francis has finally caught on.

For a moment, Francis thinks that Arthur will yell. Scream and try to rip out a chunk of Francis' hair, but for some unfathomable reason, Arthur continues to have the predictability of his own weather patterns and does something that surprises Francis.

His _Angleterre_ is a very good kisser. He learned from the very best, of course, as a child, if Francis is being so modest. His lips are always on the verge of being uncomfortably chapped but they coax Francis into responding almost innocently in mostly lips and very little tongue. No teeth whatsoever. It is not a kiss of passion, it is a kiss of regretful wrongdoings, though wrongdoings on whose behalf, Francis is not so sure. Arthur rocks forward, half hard already against Francis lap, but the kiss never deepens. It only ends when Francis finds himself groaning against the lips of his lover, friend and enemy that Arthur pulls away and looks at him with a mix of contempt and infatuation.

"I hate you." The statement carries no obvious hate behind it. Luckily, Arthur reads the look of confusion right off of Francis' face and so amends and continues:

"I hate that you see right through my shit, you complete arse. You were never easy to overpower, it any sense of the word. I hate that you always know your feelings when I am left in the dust trying to make sense of mine." Arthur sniffs. His voice has thickened as though he is close to crying. Sex always did have the habit of making him maudlin.

Placing both hands on Arthur's hips, Francis stills them. No fun in having spiteful, gritty sex if one of them is not fully devoted to it. In a sort of silent thank you, perhaps not really but Francis chooses to read it as such, Arthur curls forward, warming the front of Francis' body with his own.

Perhaps it is just a part of Arthur's game. Or maybe Arthur really feels as such and Francis is the bad guy in this equation. Even so, there never truly seems to be a right and wrong when it comes to the two of them. It doesn't truly matter because in the end, the more humane part of Francis wins and he wraps his arms around war and life weathered man in his arms. Before he can string up what to say, he counts and recounts the already memorized number of freckles Arthur possesses on his right shoulder. It's calming to know that some things in their tumultuous relationship do not change.

"To answer your question, cher, I was...am, I suppose, jealous." He gives in. Perhaps this was all part of Arthur's plan, he cannot help but think again, and perhaps his _Angleterre_ is truly a better actor than credited for, but Francis caves, in what seems like is bound to happen as usual, and forges on, "I am perpetually jealous of the person you will one day love more than me.

"You have programmed me such as to be persistently worried about losing you. For a while it was to Spain, Portugal, Prussia, Austria, and most recently, America. It is no secret that you are attracted to power, cher, and I am afraid I cannot give you much of that anymore.

"But yet it is still my bed that you warm and it is still me who you choose to warm yours. Your feeling toward me of hate is mutual, mon amore, for every bit of power I have over you, it seems as though you have twice as much over me and my heart. I could do much better than you, and likewise you could find someone much better fitted to you, but then, that would never work, would it? We have been it involved in each other's lives far too long to be truly happy with anyone else."

"Happy?" That is the thing, of all things of course, that catches Arthur's attention. Always a bit thick. "I feel absolutely miserable with you. But then again, I suppose I don't feel particularly anything when I'm with anyone else."

"Ah," Francis croons, "That points to only one thing. You must love me. Completely infatuated. I'm afraid there isn't a cure."

"Bugger off." Arthur says, but he sits up and punches Francis square in the arm. _Dieu_, that hurts. The _petit sauvage_ must be feeling better. Even so, his ears are still a bit pink.

(In these small moments together, it almost seems as though once more they are children and everything is easy again.)

Arthur has had enough talk it seems, for he rolls off of Francis, still graceful and ever cat-like and curls into his side without much further fanfare. "You know," Arthur says, after a few minutes where Francis had been sure he'd fallen asleep, "This all would've been much easier if you had just answered my bloody question."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time. Good night, my love."

"Go to hell." Arthur says petulantly. Francis chuckles and wraps his arms around his lover's waist. Perhaps one day, Arthur's cold, shriveled, blackened heart will belong to another, but for now it is his, and he plans on making the most of that. But another day, during a more decent hour, for now he is content to curl up together and sleep, in a mirror image of much simpler times.


End file.
